


Spider

by nogoodbi



Category: Parahumans Series - Wildbow, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Gen, My First AO3 Post, My First Work in This Fandom
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-24 00:37:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17090771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nogoodbi/pseuds/nogoodbi
Summary: The worst days of our lives can shape what we become— but in this world, it's much more literal. For better or for worse, one miserable, meek high school student is pushed to the path of becoming something more after their worst day, carving their own spot for themselves in the world of capes and heroes.





	1. Spin 1.1

“I heard about your uncle,”

Hand coming down on shoulder, palm open. The pace of the movement doesn’t denote aggression, but the nature of the weeks, months and years of the two’s previous interactions leaped into the foreground of Peter’s mind. Left arm shot out and wrapped around the larger boy’s forearm, tight. 

The action interrupted the sentence coming out of Thompson’s mouth; words that were out of focus and distorted by the jolt of adrenaline that struck Peter in that moment.

_“I’m sorry ab-”_

_I’m sorry about what happened?_

_I heard about your uncle. I’m sorry about what happened._

Peter let out a breath. The one moment of sympathy from his tormentor of many years, and he'd botched it. He sensed the held eye contact made between him and Thompson; sensed the changed expression to alarm, sensed the looks aimed towards him from around them in the hallway.

He felt the murmurs and whispers in the air that overlapped with Thompson’s verbal reaction. He didn’t lash out; didn’t raise his voice or whip his hand away. The grip tightened, and Peter’s old schoolyard bully visibly flinched. 

The sensation of the skin over well-built forearm, the blood pumping under the surface that thumped and thumped and thumped faintly under one thumb, the bone.

_Crack._

A cry of pain. A broken arm thrust back towards its owner. A crowd’s collective gasp of alarm as the basketball star with the broken arm hit the ground with a thud. A school hallway shifting out of focus as a blur of blue lockers and a variety of outfit colors as a pair of feet pushed its owner away from the scene, a pair of arms shoving aside strangers and classmates. 

Peter moved quickly and effortlessly. Too effortlessly. There was a step missing in the process— the thought of movement and the movement itself disconnected. It took a while for his brain to catch up, and when it did, he was in the middle of the road, a block away from school.

The roar of a vehicle at full speed; the driver slamming the horn which blared at an unbearable volume. Again, the adrenaline.

_Get away._

Peter shot to the air, pushing his entire body weight several feet off the concrete with both legs; muscles electrified by a sudden pulse that came from a place he didn’t recognize— like there was an invisible organ attached to his body, sprouting from his neck and branching off like a massless second head that poked and prodded at his entire being.

He flipped in mid-air, his point-of-view rotating until the road was coming closer towards his face. Throwing his body weight back, he maneuvered his legs so they were under him, landing feet-first with one arm coming down to brace the rest of his weight.

When it was all over, he could breathe again. Peter was glad that he managed to make his way back to the sidewalk before the alien sensation could overtake him again. 

He walked home, eyes glued to the ground. He didn’t want to see that alley again, the place where it all happened; where his and his Aunt May’s lives got shattered into pieces he’d put back together wrong. Where his negligence ended up costing a great man his life.

It was where his mind was the night after, when he’d seen that news report. When he’d cried out and threw things and ran out the door. Aunt May wasn’t home, everything was a mess.

_Everything was a mess and it was his fault._

The universe liked to play jokes, Peter knew that. Don’t pay attention, and you could fuck your whole life up with a single action or non-action. 

He was outside when it happened. Every time he’d close his eyes, he’d see that man’s face. 

_He could have stopped it._

There was single moment that night where he didn’t see the man when he closed his eyes. Instead, he saw something else, something unknowable— and when he opened his eyes again— 

_The second head._

He’d read up on it online. It was a popular topic of discussion and speculation on the forum he’d frequently lurk through. It was even a hotly debated subject by experts in the field, experts in cape-dom and the science behind _parahumans._

There were a lot of names for it, but most call it a ‘Trigger event’.

It’s usually not a good sign.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spider-Man meets Worm. Thought it would be fitting to have a mix of two of my favorite superhero properties as the first proper written work i'm posting online.
> 
> Feedback and suggestions would be greatly appreciated :)


	2. Spin 1.2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter finishes a step.

A tower of haphazardly stacked textbooks and novels sat at the edge of the desk, ready to be put into the empty labeled boxes by the corner of the room. He'd spent the earlier half of the night clearing out his bookshelves. Two more nights, and it was moving day.

He’d been to the new place with Aunt May the other day. It was an apartment; cheaper rent, less rooms. He’d hated it. It wasn’t that the house was all that, but it had been the place he’d call home since he was four. It would be another change in a long line of changes, almost none of them good.

Peter sat with one leg on the edge of the desk, one hand holding a pen drumming the frame of his glasses, with the other doing the same with one finger on the surface of the journal. He’d started writing it upon the recommendation of one certain thread on the message boards. It was supposed to help figure out what exactly his power was.

_Broke Flash Thompsons arm in the hallway. People saw, I ran._

_(Strength? Speed of running was unusual, could be just adrenaline.)_

_Jumped twice of body height to avoid car._

_(Instinctive, no strain on legs.)_

One last ‘tap’ between pen and glasses emphasized the thought bubble that popped up in his head. He scribbled on with messy handwriting.

_Unusual awareness of threat. (Hyper-awareness?)_

The ‘second head’. The sensation throughout those bursts of adrenaline brought to him every detail of his surroundings. It was only after taking in all that data in a short amount of time, where he could decide how to react, and his body reacted instantaneously— inhumanly. 

_Hyper-awareness, heightened perception and reaction time._

The physical feats were secondary, an instrument the power gives to deal with the things it sensed.

_Thinker._

The PRT— Parahuman Response Team— had a made a classification system for capes and their powers. It was initially made so they could deal with cape-related threats easier— to make identifying and coming up with counter-measurements easier— but the internet has taken upon using the system to categorize and sort through almost every well-known cape who’s official classification hadn’t been made public, and to have discussions and debates as to what power’s what and what power’s wasn’t.

Peter wasn’t sure if self-classification would be all that accurate— unless you were something obvious like a Tinker— but it was a start, and he was pretty sure his power fit the bill.

Step one, done.

He went back a few pages in the journal to cross it out. 

__~~1.Know your power~~  
2.Prep (name, costume, etc)  
3.Make a name for yourself  
4.$$$

For the first time in weeks, Peter smiled. Uncle Ben wasn’t here anymore, and it would be too much strain on Aunt May to take up another job. Peter didn’t have that many options— and the options that did wouldn’t bring in that much money— but the power he got could give him a decent shot. 

He had lost his uncle and a normal life, is losing his home and had embarrassed himself at school, but finally, there was a sliver of something in his life he could call ‘good’.

Peter rummaged through the bottom drawer of his closet to get something he’d been working on. A red ski mask, modified with silver opaque lenses over the eyeholes. 

_Finally,_ he thought. 

_One step closer to making myself into New York’s newest supervillain._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which I splurge about power stuff.


	3. Spin 1.3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First night out.

It was the best out of all the options, despite how it sounded.

Like many young triggers, Peter’s first thought was to join the Wards. That came with caveats. The junior superhero team had many benefits for its’ members, including a sizeable salary which Peter badly needed, but hassle of the application process and the requirement of a legal guardian’s approval were big turn-offs.

_Aunt May can’t find out_ , he’d told himself.

There were also the whispers among the community of the corruption and shady dealings beneath the surface of the New York Protectorate— and by extension the Wards— but those were just rumors. 

Peter had read up on the horror-stories told by members and former members of corporate teams, and independent hero-work in New York is a dead-end for everyone but the standouts.

But Peter’s neighborhood was home to many up-and-coming villains and villain groups looking to get noticed by the city’s top dogs. Look hard enough online, and one can find the presence of many cape groups looking to find new faces for their cause. Many were even his age.

What Peter needed to do first was to make himself known. Snatch some goods from a nearby jewelry store, get away with just a glimpse of his costumed self on the surveillance tapes, make the news, and a local group would come looking. Heroes _could_ come looking too, but they had a lot more to worry about than some crook in one neighborhood in Queens. 

New York City was home to the big heroes, who deal with the big threats. That’s why the small threats brought so much hell to the poorer, less fortunate residents.

He’d planned it all out. He’d made himself a makeshift ‘costume’ consisting of the red ski mask, a black and red hooded sweatshirt, and track pants he had lying around. He’d gotten an easy to carry pouch in which he’d store some equipment: his phone, a small first-aid kit, a Swiss-army knife, and a reasonable length of climbing rope. 

He’d trained, practiced his getaways and useful applications for his thinker power, and made contingency plans for in case things went bad. He’d expected things to go bad.

Things went bad. 

Peter was on the ground, bullet in his left forearm. He moaned and writhed, slowly backing away from the police officer kneeling over him. The flashing red and blue of the sirens made the jewels strewn about beside him glint, having fallen out of the small rucksack he’d been carrying.

There was another officer behind the first one, he was pudgy and bearded. He’d been the one who opened fire. The one over Peter had a mustache, either blonde or grey from age. Things were getting blurry, and he was sure he’d put on contacts before he went out.

He had been expecting capes.

The officer said something to his radio. He approached Peter the way someone would approach a cornered animal.

Adrenaline pumped through Peter’s veins as the officer reached for a pair of cuffs at his belt. His power kicked in, the sensation of the bullet in his arm numbing, replaced by an incentive to _move_.

Before the officer could put Peter in the cuffs, Peter kicked at him. He then used his good arm to rip the officer’s pistol from the holster, giving his partner behind him a pause as Peter stood and held the gun high.

Safety off, he pulled the trigger as many times as he could as fast as he could. Peter flinched at the sound as he emptied the clip into the empty sky. 

Even as a villain, taking a life was very frowned-upon as a cape. There were unwritten rules, boundaries put in place to maintain the status-quo. Only the worst-of-the-worst broke those boundaries, and Peter had no plans to become one of those villains.

The officers took several steps back, and the pudgy one started to raise his gun. Time slowed down, and in the moment the officer’s hand moved more than an inch, the gun in Peter’s hand was flung full-force towards the man’s head, hitting hard enough to crack skull.

_Hopefully not enough to kill._

Peter ran the opposite direction. It was the dead end of an alleyway— nothing but a brick wall in his path— but he had to _get away_.

Peter leaped. Hands gripped brick, sneakers digging into the nooks. He steadied himself, adjusted his footing and grip in accordance to how his power told him to. He climbed until he reached the top. 

They’d still be out looking for him.

He had to get away _farther_. Without rest, he went left towards the edge of the roof. The gap between one building and another didn’t mean much to Peter, but one slip-up or failure of his power would end it all for him. 

He’d figured out that his power wasn’t infallible. Time slowed down for him and he could do feats that were superhuman, but he still had to be the one to act. Take too long processing what his power was warning him, and… the bullet in his arm spoke for itself.

He was blocks away from the scene when his power decided that it was safe. Fatigue washed over him, and his footing slipped while at the edge of a building.

His power gave him a poke that woke him up. Weightless as he hurtled towards the ground, he eyed the balcony of the fire escape. It had already been to far away to reach, but he had his rope.

He took it out of the pouch and unfurled it. The ends of it had weighted hooks, making it easier for him to hurl one end of it towards the fire escape. His power let him know the exact way to throw to let the rope wrap around a bar. Fingerless biking gloves let him hold on to the rope and descend without the threat of rope burn, and he made his way down safely. 

Again, the pain in his arm hit him like a truck, made worse after having used the arm to hold up his weight. He collapsed, and just then did he realize that in his attempt to escape, he’d left behind the jewels he had painstakingly stolen from the store.

“Fuck!”

He winced as he yelled the word. He slammed a fist into the ground, cursing again as he had used arm with the bullet in it. 

“Dammit!”

Four figures heard his cries. Each in their own different ways, they descended from the rooftops and approached the wounded Peter.

One materialized from the shadows, a thin figure covered head-to-toe in pure black, barely distinguishable from their surroundings. The second hovered down, a boy donning a mask with a visor; metal implements covering his upper body and arms— possibly tinker-tech.

The third figure leaped, bouncing off the walls in an extravagant manner before landing in a crouch— a stock ‘superhero landing’. 

The last one simply went down the fire escape. Another boy, who took his time catching up with his comrades.

“My, my,” he said, in a manner which would sound cheesy if he weren’t so casual sounding. “Who’s this new guy?”

“He’s hurt.” said a girl’s voice in a deadpan tone. The one in black.

“Wait, I think I can help,” a different guy’s voice.

Peter was face-down— pain pulling his attention away from the figures over him— when he felt a sharp pain on one shoulder. He cried out again. The voice closest to him shushed him. Peter looked up, and it was the boy with the visor. The implements on his arms had cartridges filled with fluids, and a needle on the the end of each of them.

“This’ll help with the pain.”

He was right. The pain of the bullet wound ceased, and his vision became dreamlike. Either from the fatigue or the drug, Peter’s consciousness escaped him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which things happen.


	4. Spin 1.4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter is in.

Peter came to on the couch of a living room he didn’t recognize. The room was only lit by candles and lanterns, but when Peter opened his eyes, his awareness washed over his surroundings like a wave. Two of the four capes in the alley had been in the room, one sitting on the recliner— legs on the coffee table— the other leaning over the couch, standing. He’d been the one with tinker-tech— the one who’d dosed him. That one, he’d pounced on first.

Still drowsy from passing out and with one arm out of commission, it wasn’t a fair matchup, but he’d caught him off guard. The tinker boy had taken off his gauntlets with the needles, and without them, he was just another guy. His chest armor and mask were still on him, so Peter went for the legs. He hit the ground, and Peter’s power warned him of the guy coming up from behind.

He went low and elbowed his gut. He was well-built, Peter felt solid muscle behind the stomach he’d hit. He didn’t crumple, managing to counter with a kick to Peter’s side he couldn’t bring his weakened body to dodge. He went down, and in the effort to get back up, he’d used his injured arm. The explosion of pain physically threw Peter back.

“Yeowch. That hurt kid?” 

Peter had a better look at him now. He didn’t look much older than him, but he was tall, built like a football star. He had short, straight brown hair, and he wore a cloth mask that covered his eyes and the top half of his face. His costume wasn’t much, just an orange and grey sleeveless shirt with a design obviously meant to evoke capes of old. He wore the shirt with jeans, so without the mask, he could easily pass off as civilian.

Peter didn’t sense an oncoming attack. The cape cautiously held out his hand, offering Peter aid.

“Sorry ‘bout that. Just didn’t appreciate you trying to beat the shit out of my friend over there,” he nudged his head towards the tinker, who hadn’t picked himself up from the fall.

“He’s delicate.”

The cape smirked, eyeing his friend. Peter reluctantly took his hand. Instead of letting go, the cape instead shook Peter’s hand.

“I’m Ritchie, by the way,” he said.

Peter was taken aback by his leniency in giving out his name— if that was his real name. Peter wasn’t sure how to introduce himself. He hadn’t really thought about an actual cape name, only ideas which were either bad or already taken. Using his name was out of the question, for very obvious reasons.

“‘S alright if you don’t wanna use your name, you have a cape name?”

Peter paused, then shook his head. “Still working on one, actually.”

He hadn’t realized just how hoarse and quiet his voice was. His throat felt dry, and the quiet hush of a voice compared to Ritche’s made him feel meek and wimpy compared to him.

“Alright, alright.”

He paused and paced towards his tinker friend, helping him up as he did to Peter.

“This,” he propped his friend up and gave him a pat on the back. “Is Hornet. You can thank him for patching up your arm,”

 _His arm._ He could feel stitches under gauze. The bullet had been taken out.

“And drugging you, back in the alley.” Ritchie continued.

“I swear to god,” Hornet chimed in. “It was supposed to just _numb_ the pain. I’m _really_ sorry about that.”

Ritchie chuckled. “Yeah, he really is, and he should be. Dragging you down here was a _pain_.”

Peter nodded, struggling to think up of a response. Instead, he’d settled on a question.

“Just— who are you guys?”

Ritchie and Hornet exchanged a look.

“Well…” Hornet trailed off.

“We’re kinda like you, haven’t figured out a name yet, exactly. Just a bunch of newbie villains, looking to get some rep. Interested?”

“ _Interested?_ ”

“In joining us! Some of us have been in your spot before. You tried to make a name for yourself, with that jewelry stunt? You were impressive, to say the least. _Dusk_ said you were, at least. She’s the chick in black, by the way,”

“You.. were watching me.”

“Yeah. But not in a creepy way. Well.. It was just Dusk, so it was probably a bit creepy, so…”

As if on cue, ‘Dusk’ herself showed up from the corner of Peter’s view. He had a better look at her stature now, very short, very thin. Ritchie visibly jumped at the sight of her, as did Hornet.

“Impressive. But I was not impressed,” she said. The way she spoke was the exact same as it had been in the alley, deadpan and declarative. 

“You were sloppy. I can tell you have a thinker power, to warn you of danger, but you still got shot.”

She held something in her left arm, behind her back. The moment Peter noticed it, she brought it forward and threw it at Peter’s feet.

“And you dropped this.”

The rucksack, half the size of an average bookbag. The sound it made as it hit the ground gave away the contents.

Peter was unsure on how to respond. The other two were silent, the pause lingering in the air edging on awkward. They wanted him on their team. It was exactly what he’d wanted, but the way it fell on his lap, it felt too easy. He didn’t need his power to tell him how this could all go wrong for him.

Peter smiled under his mask. 

“Are we looking into getting cash?”

Ritchie perked up, arms crossed. 

“Well, the main priority for now is getting rep, but yeah,”

“I’m in.” Peter said.


End file.
